Spy Zone

by Fritz Galt

  Natalie left her name and her Peachtree Plaza hotel phone number in case the investigator wanted to reach her sooner. Then she caught a taxi to the hotel for a hot shower and some sleep.

  She unlocked the door to her thirtieth floor room to find the telephone ringing in the darkness.

  She opened the thick drapes, revealing a magnificent view of the Atlanta skyline. But it illuminated an even more beautiful sight: a queen-sized bed. Kicking off her shoes, she picked up the phone and sat down beside her travel bag. “Yes?”

  “Natalie, what the hell are you doing here in the United States?”

  “Bronson? How did you get my number?” Her last, brief conversation with him had been to tell him to turn on CNN as there was an act of terrorism in progress.

  “How did you get in the States?” Bronson persisted. “India’s under quarantine. I’m sending over some law enforcement officers to take you in.”

  “Don’t quarantine me.” She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a loose, lime green T-shirt and some tight jeans. “How did you get my number?”

  “I called the FBI bureau chief in Atlanta, and when I said, ‘State Department,’ the operator said someone already contacted them from the State Department.”

  “Yeah, that was me.”

  “Just sit tight while I ask you some questions. First off, what do you have on the terrorist?”

  She unbuttoned her blouse, unhooked her bra and unzipped her skirt. “I wasn’t calling the FBI about the terrorist. I just mentioned it in order to get their attention. I wanted to talk with them about someone involved with the malaria epidemic. This CNN thing just happened.”

  “Well, this CNN ‘thing’ is our top priority at the moment. The president’s national security advisor wants answers now. We can safely assume that the suspect’s from Kashmir. Do you think there’s a connection with the malaria thing?”

  She dropped the phone momentarily to pull the T-shirt over her head. “Don’t get your ‘things’ mixed up,” she said. “And don’t get paranoid. First you accused me of bringing malaria into the country. Then you conjecture that this guy’s part of the malaria conspiracy.”

  “Natalie, you were the one who called me and told me to turn on the goddamned TV. I naturally assumed you had him connected with the malaria epidemic.”

  “Well, don’t naturally assume anything.” She unrolled the stockings from her weary legs.

  “Okay, listen to me. I want you to interview the terrorist anyway,” he said.

  “You what?”

  “We’ll pick you up and you can interrogate him. Do whatever it takes to shake the truth out of him. Why the hell is he here, and what the hell did he intend to do?”

  She stood up and shook out her hair in the mirror. “Bronson, I’m not the bad cop kind of person. I don’t hang around jail cells and connect people to car batteries. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Okay, forget it. But I’ll remember this.”

  The phone clicked off, and Natalie stared at it in stunned silence.

  Far below her window, she spotted several squad cars snaking toward her hotel through early afternoon traffic. Their sirens were off, but their lights were flashing.

  Time to get out of there.

  She wiggled down to the ends of the tight jeans, slipped into loafers, grabbed her travel bag, purse and room key, stepped out into the hallway and shut the door behind her.

  The digital panel by the elevators indicated that both elevators were rising toward her.

  She looked for an escape.

  A sign above her read “Exit.” She shoved the door open and began to jog down the internal emergency stairs.

  Great. Now Bronson thought she was Typhoid Mary.

  She finally reached the lobby, her legs feeling rubbery. There she noticed police officers interrogating the doorman.

  She sat down among leafy tropical plants beside a splashing fountain and tried to catch her breath. Water splattered on her hands and tingled her skin.

  A teenage girl wandered past her, carrying a poodle that was so small it looked like a fluffy white toy. The pair disappeared into the ladies’ room.

  Another policeman emerged from the elevator shaking his head. The officers discussed the situation, then fanned out across the lobby to the building’s various exits.

  Natalie glanced down at her travel bag. What could she do?

  Ten minutes later, a Muslim woman stepped out of the ladies’ room into the lobby of the Peachtree Plaza. She wore a black shroud that covered her from head to toe. A fluffy white poodle on a leash pulled her out the front door to the taxi stand. Together, they eased into the first taxi in line.

  The driver, a spry old Southerner with a gentlemanly touch, helped her gather all her fabric into the back seat, then jumped behind the wheel. “Where to, ma’am?” He asked with a tip of his hat.

  “Take me to the Underground, and step on it,” came an unmistakably American reply.

  His dark face glanced into the rearview mirror and found himself staring into two very apprehensive blue eyes.

  As the bright yellow taxicab rocketed across downtown Atlanta, Natalie pulled the bulky dress over her head. Underneath, she still wore the T-shirt and jeans.

  How could she blend in better? She reached down and knotted the loose T-shirt around her belly. Somehow it felt more Southern.

  She noticed her hair clinging to the roof of the cab. She tilted her head back and tried to smooth the errant strands.

  The puppy yelped at her feet and she reached down to calm it just in time to catch it preparing to pee on her leather loafers.

  The driver reached the Underground quickly, where he opened the door for her.

  Her slim legs emerged first, then the toned and tanned skin of her belly, followed by her curvaceous chest. Lastly, he saw her reflective wraparound sunglasses and auburn hair.

  “Are you the same…”

  She handed him a bill with Jackson’s face on it. “Don’t go back to the Peachtree today,” she said.

  “Of course not, ma’am.” He waved the bill in acknowledgement.

  She handed the puppy and another Jackson to the next cab in line. “Return him to the Peachtree Plaza.”

  Chapter 28

  Natalie nudged the grilled chicken breast around her plate at an open-air restaurant named “Micks.” The name of the all-American grill gave her indescribable pleasure, and heartache. If only her husband could be there. The young FBI agent seated opposite her made a poor substitute.

  Across the restaurant, a weary Santa Claus slouched at a table, cappuccino in hand. In the other direction, kids fidgeted in line waiting to recite their wishes to yet another Santa Claus.

  She stared across the table at the young agent wearing a very thin tie and a starched white shirt stretched over brawny shoulders. His brush cut seemed more a mockery than an attempt to meet the FBI grooming requirements. Maybe it helped him penetrate dangerous cults.

  “What can you tell me about Rajiv Khan?” she asked.

  “Are you a friend of Congressman Butler from the kidnapping case?” he asked, a puzzled look still haunting his fresh features.

  “Better than that,” she replied. “I know his wife.”

  “Well, someone made my boss jump ten feet and move this appointment from tomorrow at ten in my office to immediately at a place of your convenience.”

  “I thought it would work,” Natalie said with a smile, while casting a glance at the Underground’s pay phone. Just twenty minutes before, she had made a telephone call to Mrs. Butler on Capitol Hill. “Now, about Dr. Rajiv Khan.”

  “Right.” The young agent dipped his pita pocket into some yogurt and cucumber mixture. “Dr. Rajiv Khan hails from Mumbai, India,” he said, and stuffed half the pita into his mouth.

  Natalie nearly fell out of her chair. “Do you mean Bombay?”

  “Heard of it? He’s from a Muslim community there,” he said, his voice muffled by pita.

  “And is Dr. Khan o
n your Top Ten list, wanted for the murder of his human subjects?” She exaggerated her lip movements as if also trying to communicate around a mouthful of food.

  The young man brushed a crumb off his sleeve. “We’ve got an outstanding warrant for his arrest. We want to bring him in for questioning. I’m not sure if the Justice Department has prepared a case against him, but we do want him for a number of reasons.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  The agent stuffed his mouth once again and waved a free hand in the air. “We have no leads.”

  “Isn’t there a Bureau of Missing Persons?”

  He swallowed. “Well, there is a rock band named ‘Missing Persons.’ And there was a popular TV show called ‘Bureau of Missing Persons.’ But as for an official U.S. Government body, there is no such thing. The FBI can hide people just fine with our Witness Protection Program, but we can’t easily find people who are missing. I guess it’s tied up in the American Way, right to privacy and all that.”

  “But what if a mother loses a child? Where would she turn?”

  “There is a whole slew of private investigators you can pay to ask discreet questions and check databases for you. And there are some Internet sites where people post pictures of missing ones. But aside from that, you report the missing person to your local police station and if the individual doesn’t turn up after sixty days, they’ll put out some feelers.” He gulped down several swallows of lemonade.

  “You mean to tell me that there’s no ‘Most Wanted’ list of missing people?”

  “None.”

  “So if you don’t buy the right milk carton, you’ll never know if a certain child is considered missing?”

  “Basically, ma’am.”

  “Remind me never to lose someone.”

  “Ma’am, I wouldn’t advise it.”

  She sensed some pride in his reply. Perhaps the ultimate bureaucracy was a bureaucracy that people assumed existed, but didn’t. “Well, supposing I wanted to find Dr. Rajiv Khan. Exactly how would one of these private eyes find him?”

  He wiped his fingers with a paper napkin. “Basically, they start with the guy’s social security number, name, date of birth and driver’s information. Then they look into previous addresses, property record information and relatives who have resided with the subject. They can research multiple databases of public records and proprietary sources and come up with some pretty recent information on the subject.”

  “Is that what you’ve done?”

  “Yes. And came up with zip.”

  “I’d like to track down Khan’s relatives.”

  “You could start with his brother,” he said, taking a final swallow of lemonade.

  “Do you mean he’s available to interrogate?”

  “Ma’am, if you find him, let me know. It would make my career. You see, Rajiv’s brother is on the FBI’s Most Wanted List.”

  Natalie’s jaw dropped an inch. “What do you want him for?”

  “Oh, terrorist bombings in New York, Tanzania and Kenya.”

  “What’s the name of his brother?”

  “It’s Abu Mohammed Ali Khan.”

  She froze. That was the name given to her by the old Muslim man in Bombay who had tipped off the consulate about Congressman Butler’s daughter. According to the old man, Abu was his son-in-law, but used a Pakistani business card, and had connections with various Islamist groups. A terrorist related to a missing malaria researcher smelled suspicious. However, she couldn’t mention this to the young FBI agent. It might reveal her own identity and purposes.

  Now she had even more reason to find the brothers.

  “Do you know about any other relatives of Rajiv and Abu Khan? For example, where do their parents live?”

  “We have no idea.”

  “Who might? Can you take me to anyone affiliated with the family or the terrorist organization?”

  “You want to talk to terrorists? I’d say you want to find this doctor awfully bad.”

  “Let’s just say he’s my major focus.” Her heart was beating fast. She felt seconds away from saving Mariah’s life.

  “Well, we’ve got members of Abu’s organization in prison in New York. Incidentally, since you ask, we do have that CNN terrorist in captivity. He’s also on our list as belonging to Abu’s organization.”

  Natalie gulped. “Has the terrorist talked yet?”

  “Our interrogators haven’t arrived from Islamabad yet. This will probably be one of those cases where the prosecutors use top secret evidence and the defense has no access to the evidence for rebuttal or cross-examination. The courts are getting tired of our excuses, the defense attorneys are crying foul, and our own domestic Muslim groups are calling our arrests anti-ethnic.”

  “Let me at him,” she said, and stood up.

  “Not so fast. You’d need a top secret clearance.”

  She dug into her purse and pulled out her diplomatic passport and consulate ID labeled “Top Secret Clearance.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, that won’t cut it here.”

  She sensed another bureaucratic obstacle. “Wait a second. Hand me your phone.” The man handed her his cell phone, and she dialed a number in Washington. “Connect me to Congressman Butler’s office, please.” A few seconds elapsed and she continued, “Hello, this is Natalie Pierce with the State Department. The FBI here in Atlanta is blocking me from investigating the CNN terrorist who happens to be linked to Keri Butler’s kidnapping. Would you like to talk to the agent involved?”

  She handed the phone back to the young agent.

  He listened for a full minute, said nothing and, satisfied, clicked the phone shut.

  “You gonna eat that chicken?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  He reached across the table, picked it up and stuffed it into his mouth. Some appetite for a desk jockey.

  “Follow me,” he said.

  He stood and spun around to lead her away. A pair of swastikas was shaved into the back of his head.

  A forest canopy covered the ashram like a moist, black shroud. Mick approached the only light, a flame that danced over Swami J.P. Nilayam’s placid face.

  The guru sat on the ground, his eyes closed, his bare chest scarcely moving in the slow and deep breathing method of classical yoga.

  Monkeys, crows and parrots had quieted for the night as Swamiji’s followers sat cross-legged around him. The only sound came from water dripping off the canopy like condensation in a greenhouse. The smell of dosas, made from parboiled rice and masala vegetables lingered heavily in the air.

  Mick’s ears rang in the stillness. He heard no car horns honking, no clocks ticking, no radios or televisions playing.

  He had never felt farther from the world’s capitals, from the issues of the day, or from the news. At the same time, he had never felt closer to himself.

  He had called Dr. Yates late that afternoon and felt reassured that Mariah was well cared for.

  “No change in her condition,” Yates had reported.

  “Is that good?” Mick had asked.

  “In her case it is. Her temperature is normal. She’s comfortable, Mick. All she needs is a haircut. So don’t worry.”

  “How’s the search for a cure going.”

  “My side of the coin is nearly complete. I have all the antigens I need. I’m just stymied as to how to kill the little beasts. Have you run into Dr. Khan?”

  “Not yet,” Mick had said. “Maybe tomorrow. I want to find a cure as fast as you do.”

  Watching the old guru, he could almost understand how Swamiji could kidnap Congressman Butler’s daughter in order to ransom her for the malaria research.

  Mick had learned very little that day about the mysterious Keri Butler. Her pale, sweating face only radiated peace and spirituality, and she seemed to remain at the ashram of her own free will.

  On the other front, whenever he had tried to ask Swamiji or Lena about malaria research, they shrugged him off in a kind, gentle way.
/>   “After some time,” Swamiji had said. Later he had said, “If not today, then tomorrow.” They were both Indian versions of the Spanish phrase “mañana.”

  In the meantime, Lena led him through the ashram’s rigid daily schedule.

  After Swamiji’s talk at noon, Mick had observed an asana, or exercise class, followed by yoga relaxation and an early vegetarian dinner. The next day promised to start at daybreak with a lecture at the water’s edge and further meditation.

  In the periphery of the small meditation group, he watched with detachment as Lena kissed and caressed a fit, young Indian man.

  At last the man seemed to have had enough of Lena’s tenderness and wandered off into the darkness. Lena circled the group and sat on the ground beside Mick.

  “From what I saw earlier today,” Mick whispered, “I thought you were married to Swamiji.”

  “Weren’t you listening to him? He calls it female polygamy.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “I call it cheating.”

  Swamiji began a low humming tone, and the rest of the group joined in. They all maintained the same pitch until it reverberated throughout the sturdy palm trunks.

  Just then, Mick’s cell phone chirped away. He scrambled to extract it from his pocket.

  “Yes?” he whispered angrily into the mouthpiece.

  There was only silence, then a female voice saying suspiciously, “What’s that sound?”

  “Oh, it’s you, Natalie. That sound you hear is a group trying to meditate.”

  He strolled a small distance from the circle of faces.

  “What’s this ‘Oh, it’s you’ business?” Natalie demanded.

  “Sorry about that. I was annoyed to receive a phone call here in the jungle, but I’m glad it’s you.”

  “And have you taken up meditation?”

  “Not me. I’m just looking for Dr. Khan. No luck yet. By the way, what did you find out about him?”

  “First, how’s Mariah?”

  “No fever, yet. No chills. Simon’s taking good care of her. He said Mariah needed a haircut. I guess that’s good news.”